


Safe Space

by geekmama



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 20:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10929651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: She woke to the sound of snoring...--------------For the First Sleepover prompt for May 17th of Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017





	Safe Space

**Author's Note:**

> For the 'And' prompt.
> 
>  
> 
> ****************************

She woke to the sound of snoring. Not the window-rattling sort, such as she remembered issuing from behind the closed door of her grandfather’s bedroom when he’d lived with them so many years ago. Nor was it the slightly milder yet still disturbing version of her father’s, the authorship of which he’d denied to the end of his days. The current iteration was a far gentler sound. Quiet, and really almost soothing in its way. For a moment she wondered where it was coming from. 

But only for a moment. 

_Sherlock._  

He had come to her late the evening before, exhausted but satisfied, a triple murder that had baffled the best of Scotland Yard having taken even _him_ nine days to unravel. 

“Solved and put to bed,” he’d told her, swaying on his feet. 

“You should be put to bed yourself!” she’d blurted, and then blushed, afraid he might take that the wrong way. “I mean… w-why aren’t you back in Baker Street?” 

“Don’t you want to hear about it?” he’d pouted. 

“Of course, but… well, come in then. I suppose you haven’t eaten in days, either, so you can tell me while I make you something.” 

She hadn’t had much in the flat, but the meal -- hot tea, beans on toast, and a leftover slice of Victoria Sponge Cake from a co-worker’s birthday celebration -- was deemed acceptable. Between mouthfuls he rambled on about his deductions, the clues _those idiots on the force_ had misread, or missed entirely, and a great many of the quite literally gory details. 

She sat enthralled, and vastly pleased that he had once again singled her out as the person with whom he wished to share his success. John had been with him on the case, as usual, and knew everything, and would blog about it in his clever way, but John had also an irreverent eye and acerbic wit that Molly suspected Sherlock found a bit trying at times. His Pathologist, on the other hand, usually expressed nothing but sincere admiration for the gifts of intellect and ability that came so beautifully wrapped in the person of Sherlock Holmes, World’s Only Consulting Detective. 

Said detective was also endearingly human, however, and with the last bites of cake Molly saw that he was coming down hard, the adrenaline charged stream of words petering out, his eyelids evidently growing heavy. He muttered blearily, “Hmmm. You know, perhaps I’ll just have a rest on your couch.” 

“Sherlock, that couch is too short for you,” she’d said, amused but also concerned. “You need a good night’s sleep and you’d be far more comfortable in your own bed.” 

“Just for a few hours?” 

She’d sighed, swallowed hard, and, hoping she wasn’t blushing too vividly, voiced a thought she’d had several times in the months since he’d taken to using her flat as a bolthole. “Look, why don’t we share the bed? It’s big enough. I’ll keep to my side, and you can keep to yours. Your… your virtue will be quite unsullied. And we can _both_ be comfortable.” 

He’d stared, looking slightly less sleepy, and when he didn’t reply immediately she began to wonder if she’d made a grave error in suggesting such a thing. But finally he said, “Alright. If you’re sure you don’t mind.” 

He’d sounded -- and looked -- so uncharacteristically humble that she’d almost laughed. And mind? Oh _heavens!_ But aloud she only said, “No, it’s fine. Come on.” 

As he’d followed her back to her bedroom, she’d said over her shoulder, “I hope _you_ don’t mind pink!” 

He sniffed. “Yes, Molly, I insist you redecorate immediately.” But a few seconds later, when he’d stepped into the bedroom, lit by the warm glow of her frilly bedside lamp, he did stop and stare about. He’d been in her room once or twice before, but under much less weighty circumstances. Now he was noticing every detail, particularly the big bed with its brass headboard, many pillows, and bedclothes of rose-splashed pink trimmed with deep, foamy lace. He said, finally, “It’s… er… it suits you.” He smiled a little, probably relieved he’d found a critique that would not offend. 

“Thank you!” she said, hiding a smile. “I’ll turn down the bed while you use the loo, if you like. There’s a spare toothbrush in the left hand drawer by the sink. Oh! Did you want to shower?” 

“Not unless you insist. Been showering for days, we spent most of the time being soaked by rain.” 

“Oh, dear!” 

“Mmm.” He turned away and ambled down the short hall to the toilet. 

She took advantage of his absence not only to turn down the bed, but to swiftly strip off the ancient and somewhat frayed plaid flannel pyjamas she’d been wearing, donning another set made of a thinner material, a soft grey jersey dotted with tiny white flowers. The new set, which draped nicely, clinging in exactly the right places, had been a Christmas gift from her mother and Molly had laid them aside for a special occasion. It was difficult to conceive of an occasion more special than this one. 

She was brushing out her hair when Sherlock returned. 

He raised his brows a little as he looked her new attire over, and she blushed and began to wrack her brain for an excuse that would sound both plausible and innocent. But then he seemed to lose interest and, yawning, wandered over to the chair by the window. He took off the jacket of his suit, laid it carefully over the back of the chair and began to unbutton his shirt. 

“I… um… I’ll be back,” she managed, and scooted toward the loo, well out of range of Sherlock’s strip tease. 

She took her time, feeling stupidly nervous and rather hoping he would be in bed and sound asleep by the time she returned. 

She was only half right. He was tucked in, but his eyes met hers. 

“Um… everything alright, then?” she asked. The sight of him lying there, looking rather enormous and extremely male amid the roses and lace, was… disturbing. 

“Fine,” he assured her. 

“Thank you for taking the right side. I always sleep on the left.” 

“I know. I mean… it was obvious.” 

“Oh. Of course.” 

Her heart was thumping noisily as she crossed the room to get in bed, and she could feel her cheeks burning. She turned out the light and slipped under the covers, lying on her side, facing away from him, close to the edge. Settled herself. “Goodnight,” she said. 

“Goodnight.” 

The minutes ticked by in the blessed dark. Neither of them moved, and though he was lying on his back, there was at least a couple of feet of empty space between them. No-man’s land. 

But it didn’t matter. She wasn’t sleeping. Couldn’t sleep. And she was pretty sure he was in the same predicament. 

Perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea. 

However, that seemed to have been her last conscious thought until that pleasant, light snoring had come to her ears, and gently ruffled her hair. 

_Ruffled her hair?_  

She opened her eyes, moving very slightly, and froze. 

No-man’s land had been breached, and in no uncertain terms. 

Molly seemed to be half draped over Sherlock, curled against him, tucked into his side, her cheek against his shoulder, as close as two people could get without… _well_ … and furthermore, he was holding her. His arms, with latent strength, were about her, and it was his breath, deep and even, that had ruffled her hair. 

She lay still as a mouse, wondering what she should do. Yet, at the same time, she had sense enough to absorb every aspect of the moment: the intriguing scent, Essence of Rain-Washed Sherlock; the feel of smooth skin and firm, muscular flesh; the cotton fabric of his vest and pants; the size of him, big and warm and… just right. Comfortable. 

Exquisitely comfortable. 

She found that she was most disinclined toward moving, and even less toward making a fuss. It would only spoil things, create an embarrassing situation for both of them. 

Perhaps she could just go back to sleep. 

By the faint light she knew it was very early -- just past dawn, probably. 

And she was _very_ comfortable. 

She closed her eyes and consciously relaxed, feeling she might as well try. Who knew when -- _if_ \-- she’d ever have this opportunity again? 

*

 Some slight movement had roused him. 

_Molly._  

He was adept at maintaining a pretense of sleep, having found it a useful skill at various points in his erratic career. So he sustained his relaxed state, his even rate of breathing, and he did not open his eyes. He was, however, cognizant of Molly’s situation (awake, aware, held in his arms) and of his own. 

The scent of her hair was… delicious. Yet it was also remarkably soothing, and he could still feel the pull of post-case exhaustion, both mental and physical. Inconvenient physical evidence of his attraction to his pathologist was accordingly minimized, though for the sake of honesty he could no longer deny the reality of it. 

He felt some vague perturbation in acknowledging that truth. Fear of endangering her; a lingering distrust of sentiment; an unwillingness to alter their comfortable relationship.   

Comfortable. 

Comfort. 

And the scent of her hair… 

Ultimately, it was the fact that she seemed to have decided to simply go back to sleep that served to assuage these muddled concerns. 

He consigned them to the nebulous future, and a smile tugged at his lips as he began to drift off again. 

Safe. 

Comfortable. 

Breathing deep.

 

~.~

 


End file.
